by W. W. Jacobs
II.
She was of those who are by nature morbid; who deceive themselves ifthey imagine they have enjoyment from the recreations that provokelightness of heart in the majority. Only the surface of theirspirits ripples under such breezes; to stir the whole, to producethe counterpart of a hearty laugh in your vigorous animal, a feast onmelancholy must be provided. This is a quality that is common among thelower classes who find their greatest happiness in funerals. The sombretrappings; white handkerchiefs against black dresses; tears; the mysteryof gloom--these trickle with a warm glow through all their senses. Theyare as aroused by grief, unpleasant to the majority, as the drunkard isquickened by wine, to many abhorrent.
Thus it was with Margaret, and to her the shroud of melancholy in whichshe was now wrapped brought an added boon--arrayed in it she was bestable to make her verses. Not of necessity sad little verses; many of herbrightest were conceived in profoundest gloom. With a pang at the heartshe could be most merry--tinkling out her laughing little lines just asmartyrs could breathe a calm because, rather than spite of, they weredevilishly racked.
III.
But this was no hour for tinkling lines. A manuscript returned by thelast post emphasised her gloom.
Kissing her father good-night, Margaret crept to her room, aching withdesire to write.
She undressed, read a portion of the _Imitation_, then to her table bythe open window.
Two hours brought relief. Margaret placed her poem in an envelopeagainst its presentation to George in the morning, then from her windowleaned.
From her thoughts at once George sped; they rushed across the sleepingfields to cling about the person of that Mr. William Wyvern who hadspoken of Mr. Marrapit as reminding him of a minor prophet--shaved.This was Margaret's nightly practice, but to-night this girl was mostexquisitely melancholy, and with melancholy her thoughts of her Williamwere tinged. She had not seen him that day; and now she brooded upon thebitter happening that had forced all her meetings with her lover to besnatched--fugitive, secret.
For Mr. William Wyvern was not allowed at Herons' Holt. When love firstsent its herald curiosity into William's heart, the young man had soughtto relieve its restlessness by a visit ostensibly on George, really uponMargaret, and extremely ill-advised in that at his heels gambolled histhree bull-terriers.
Korah, Dathan, and Abiram these were named, and they were abrupt dogs toa point reaching brusqueness.
At the door, as William had approached, beamed Mr. Marrapit; upon thedrive the queenly Rose of Sharon sat; and immediately tragedy swooped.
The dogs sighted the Rose. Red-mouthed the shining pack flew at her.Dignity fell before terror: wildly, with streaming tail, she fled.
Orange was the cat, white the dogs: like some orange and snow-whiteribbon magically inspired, thrice at enormous speed they set a beltabout the house. With tremendous bounds the Rose kept before herpursuers--heavily labouring, horrid with thirsty glee. Impotent in thedoorway moaned Mr. Marrapit, his dirge rushing up to a wail of griefeach time the parti-coloured ribbon flashed before his eyes.
With Mr. Fletcher the end had come. Working indoors, aroused by the din,the gardener burst out past his master just as the ribbon fluttered intosight upon the completion of its fourth circuit. Like a great avalancheit poured against his legs; as falls the oak, so pressed he fell.
Each eager jaw snapped once. Korah bit air, Dathan the cat's right ear.She wrenched; freed; sprang high upon the porch to safety, blood on hercoat.
Abiram put a steely nip upon Mr. Fletcher's right buttock.
William called off his dogs; stood aghast. Mr. Marrapit stretchedentreating arms to his adored. Mr. Fletcher writhed prone.
The torn Rose slipped to Mr. Marrapit's bosom. Clasping her he turnedupon William--"You shall pay for this blood!"
William stammered: "I'm very sorry, sir. If--"
"Never again enter my gates. I'll have your curs shot!"
Curs was unfortunate; the evil three were whelped of a mighty strain.
"If your fool of a man hadn't got in the way, the cat would haveescaped," William hotly cried. Indignant he turned. Banishment wasnothing then; in time it came to be a bitter thing.
Mr. Marrapit had raged on to Mr. Fletcher, yet writhing.
"You hear that?" he had cried. "Dolt! You are responsible for this!" Hetouched the blood-flecked side, the abrased ear; clasped close the Rose;called for warm water.
Mr. Fletcher clapped a hand to his wound as shakily he rose.
"I go to rescue his cat!" he said; "I'm near worried to death by 'ounds.I'm a dolt. I'm responsible. It's 'ard,--damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, Iam; not a dog muzzle."
A dimness clouded Margaret's beautiful eyes as this bitter picture--shehad watched it--was again reviewed. She murmured "Oh, Bill!"; stretchedher soft arms to the night; moved her pretty lips in a message to herlover; snuggled between the sheets and made melancholy her bedfellow.
IV.
By seven she was up and in the fresh garden. George was before her.
She cried brightly: "Why, how early you are!" and ran to him--verypretty in her white dress: at her breast a rose, the poem fluttering inher hand.
"Yes; for once before you."
George's tone did not give back her mood, purposely keyed high. Sheplayed on it again: "Turning a new leaf?"
He drummed at the turf with his heel: "Yes--for to-day." He threw out ahand towards her: "But in the same old book. I've had eight--nine yearsof it, and now there are three more months."
"Poor George! But only three months, think how they will fly!"
He was desperately gloomy: "I haven't your imagination. Each single dayof them will mean a morning--here; a night--here."
"Oh, is it so hard?"
"Yes, now. It's pretty deadly now. You know, when I wasn't preciselykilling myself with overwork, I didn't mind so much. When it was threeor four years, anyway, before I could possibly be free, a few extramonths or so through failing an exam, didn't trouble me. But thisis different. I was right up against getting clear of all this"--hecomprehended garden and house in a sweep of the hand--"counted it a deadcertainty--and here I am pitched back again."
"But, George, you did work so hard this time. It isn't as though youhad to blame yourself." She put a clinging hand into his arm. "Youcan suffer no--remorse. That is what makes failure so dreadful--theknowledge that things might have been otherwise if one had liked."
George laughed quite gaily. Gloom never lay long upon this young man.
"You're a sweet little person," he said. "You ought to be right, butyou are wrong. When I didn't work I didn't mind failing. It's when I'vetried that I get sick."
Margaret's eyes brightened. There was melancholy here.
"Oh, I know what you mean. I know so well. I have felt that. You meanthe--the haunting fear that you may never be able to succeed; that youhave not the--the talent, the capacity." She continued pleadingly:"Oh, you mustn't think that. You can--you _will_ succeed next time, youknow."
"Rather!" responded George brightly.
Margaret was quite pained. She would have had him express doubt,despondently sigh; would have heartened him with her poem. The confident"rather!" jarred. She hurried from its vigour.
She asked: "What had you intended to do?"
"I was to have got a _locum tenens_. I think it would have developedinto a permanency. A big, rough district up in Yorkshire with a man whokeeps six horses going. His second assistant--a pal of mine--wants tochuck it."
"Why?"
"Why? Oh, partly because he's fed up with it, partly because he wants apractice of his own."
"Ah! ... But, George, don't you want a practice of your own? You don'twant to be another man's assistant, do you?"
George laughed. "I can't choose, Margi. You know, if you imagine thereare solid groups of people all over England anxiously praying for thearrival of a doctor, you must adjust that impression, as your fatherwould say. These things have to be bought. I've got about three pounds,so I'm not bidd
ing. They seldom go so cheap."
Margaret never bantered. She had no battledore light enough to returnan airy shuttlecock. Now, as always, when this plaything camebuoyantly towards her she swiped it with heavy force clean out of theconversational field.
She said gravely: "Ah, I know what you mean. You mean that father oughtto buy you a practice--ought to set you up when you are qualified. Ican't discuss that, can I? It wouldn't be loyal."
"Of course not. I don't ask you."
They moved towards the sound of the breakfast bell.
"You think," Margaret continued, "that father ought to buy you apractice because your mother left him money for the purpose?"
"I know she left him nearly five thousand pounds for my educationand all that. I think I may have cost him three thousand, possiblyfour--_so_ I think I am entitled to something, _but_ I shan't get it,_therefore_ I don't worry. My hump is gone; in three months I shall begone. Forward: I smell bacon!"
Margaret smiled the wan smile of an invalid watching vigorous youth atsport. Firmly she banged the shuttlecock out of sight.
"How bright you are!" she told him. "Look, here is a little poem I wrotefor you last night. It's about failure and success. Don't read it now."
George was very fond of his cousin. "Oh, but I must!" he cried. "I thinkthis was awfully nice of you. He's not down yet. Let's sit on this seatand read it together."
"Oh, not aloud. It's a silly little thing--really."
"Yes--aloud."
He smoothed the paper. She pressed against him; thrilled as she regardedthe written lines. George begged her read. She would not--well, shewould. She paused. Modesty and pride gathered on her cheeks, tuned hervoice low. She read:
"So you have tried--So you have known The burning effort for success, The quick belief in your own prowess and your skill, The bitterness of failure, and the joy Of sweet success."
"'Burning effort,'" George said. "That's fine!"
"I'm glad you like that. And 'quick belief'--you know what I mean?"
"Oh, rather."
The poet warmed again over her words.
"So you have tried-- So you have known The blind-eyed groping towards the goal That flickers on the far horizon of Attempt, Gleaming to sudden vividness, anon Fading from sight."
"Sort of blank verse, isn't it?" George asked.
"Well, sort of," the poet allowed. "Not exactly, of course."
"Of course not," George agreed firmly.
Margaret breathed the next fine lines.
"So you have tried-- So you have known The bitter-sweetness of Attempt, The quick determination and the dread despair That grapple and possess you as you strive For imagery."
George questioned: "Imagery...?"
"That verse is more for me than you," the poet explained. "'Forimagery'--to get the right word, you know."
"Rather!" said George. "It does for me too--in exams, when one isfloored, you know."
"Yes," Margaret admitted doubtfully. "Ye-es. Don't interrupt between theverses, dear."
Now emotion swelled her voice.
"Success be yours! May you achieve To heights you do not dream you'll ever touch; The power's to your hand, the road before you lies-- Forward! The gods not always frown; anon They'll kindly smile."
"Why, that's splendid!" George cried. He put a cousinly arm aboutthe poet; squeezed her to him. "Fancy you writing that for me! What asympathetic little soul you are--and how clever!"
Breathless she disengaged herself: "I'm so glad you like it. It's asilly little thing--but it's _real_, isn't it? Come, there's father."
She paused against denial of the poem's silliness, affirmation of itstruth; but George, moody beneath Mr. Marrapit's eye, glinting behind thewindow, had moved forward.
Margaret thrust the paper in her bosom, tucked in where heart might warmagainst heart's child. Constantly during breakfast her mind reverted toit, drummed its rare lines.
CHAPTER III.
Upon Modesty In Art: And Should Be Skipped.
Yet Margaret had called her poem silly. Here, then, was mock-modesty bydiffidence seeking praise. But this mock-modesty, which horribly aboundsto-day, is only natural product of that furious modesty which has cometo be expected in all the arts.
Modesty should have no place in true art. The author or the painter,the poet or the composer should be impersonal to his work. That which hecreates is not his; it is a piece of the art to which he is servant, andas such (and such alone) he should regard it. His in the making and themoulding, thereafter it becomes the possession of the great whole towhich it belongs. If it adorns that whole he may freely admire it; forhe is impersonal to it.
Unquestionably (or unconsciously) we accept this principle in regard tohuman life. The child belongs not to the mother who conceived it but tothe race of which it is an atom. It hinders or it betters the race. Therace judges it. By the race it is honoured or condemned; and to it themother becomes impersonal. As it bears itself among its fellows, so shejudges it--as the artist's work bears itself in the great art it joins,so should he judge it. And if the mother joins in his fellows' praise ofher child, and if she proclaims her pride in it, is she called wantingin modesty?--and if the artist joins in praise of his work, and if hefreely names it good, must he then be vain, boastful? The race grantsthat the mother who gave it this specimen of its kind has a first rightto show her pride--to the artist who gives a fair specimen to his art weshould allow a like voice.
For in demanding modesty--in naming impersonality conceit--we haveproduced also mock-modesty; and because, as a people, we have littleappreciation of the arts, hence little knowledge, hence no standard bywhich to judge, we continually mistake the one form of modesty for theother. Modesty we suspect to be mock-modesty, and mock-modesty we taketo be pleasing humility.
Coming to literature alone, the author should be impersonal to his workand must not cry that the writer is no judge of his own labour. Lettersis his trade; and just as the mason well knows whether the brick he haslaid helps or hinders, beautifies or insults the house, so the writershould be full cognisant whether his work helps make or does mar theedifice called literature. Nor must the term literature be denied to theruck of modern writing. All that is written to interest or to instructgoes to make the literature of our day. We have introduced newexpressions just as we have contrived new expressions in architecture;and as in the latter case so in the former the bulk of these isephemeral. Nevertheless they are a part of literature, and all effortsin them better or sully the pages which in our day we are adding to thebook of literature. From this book the winds of cycles to come will blowall that is unworthy--only the stout leaves will endure; but, no lessbecause you write for the supplement than if you have virtue sufficientfor the bound volume, remember that in every form of writing thereare standards of good, and that every line printed helps raise or doestarnish the letters of our day.
CHAPTER IV.
Excursions In A Hospital.
I.
By the half-past nine train George went to town; an hour later was atSt. Peter's.
From the bar of the Students' Club a throng of young men of his yearloudly hailed him. He joined them; took with a laugh the commiserationson his failure; wrung the hands of those who had been successful.
The successful young gentlemen were standing drinks-each man hisround. There was much smoke and much laughter. Amusing experiences werenarrated. You gathered that all who had passed their examination haddone so by sheer luck, by astonishing flukes. Not one had ever worked.Each had been "ragged" on a subject of which he knew absolutely nothing.To the brilliancy with which he had gulled or bluffed his examiner, tothe diplomacy with which he had headed him off the matters of which heknew absolutely less than nothing-to these alone were his success due.
Such is ever Youth's account of battle with Age. Youth is a devil ofa smart fellow, behind whom Age blunders along in the most ridiculousfashion. Later this young blood takes his place in the blundering ranksand then does
learn that indeed he was right--Age knows nothing. Forwith years we begin to realise our ignorance, and the lesson is notcomplete when the grave slams the book. A few plumb the depths of theirignorance before death: these are able to speak--and these are theteachers of men. We get here one reason why giants are fewer in our day:with the growth of man's imaginings and his inventions there is morevanity to be forced through; the truths of life lie deeper hid; morephantasms arise to lure us from the quest of realities; the task ofstriking truth accumulates.
II.
Soon after midday the party broke up. Its members lunched early;visiting surgeons and physicians went their rounds at half-past one.
George strolled to the Dean's office.
A woebegone-looking youth in spectacles stood before the table; oppositesat the Dean. He looked up as George entered, and nodded: he was fond ofGeorge.
"Come along in," he said; "I shan't be a minute."
He turned to the sad youth. "Now your case, Mr. Carter," he said, "isquite unique. In the whole records of the Medical School"--he waved ata shelf of fat volumes--"in the whole records of the Medical School wehave nothing in the remotest degree resembling it. You have actuallyfailed twice in--in--"
The Dean searched wildly among a litter of papers; baffled, threw out anemphasising hand, and repeated, "_Twice_! Other hospitals, Mr. Carter,may have room for slackers--we have not. We have a record and areputation of which we are proud. You are in your second year. How oldare you?"
